Days of Rakes and Roses (3 page)

Now she thought about it, Cam’s purpose in making mischief was transparent enough. He considered Sir Grenville Berwick a self-righteous prig and he’d frequently verged on quarreling with her over her choice of husband. Winkling Simon away from the fleshpots must be a last-ditch attempt to make her cry off her engagement. Surely her brother knew her better. She loathed the thought of setting tongues wagging, as she would if she jilted a good man in favor of a rapscallion whose name was a byword for license.

And to what purpose would she take up with Simon? Although he’d indicated news of her engagement had brought him here, he was hardly likely to want to marry her. No word since he’d left and gossip about his numerous conquests put paid to any such foolish notion.

The only result Lydia could envision if she fell in with her brother’s plans was her disgrace. Her brother’s machinations seemed half-cocked, which was odd—Cam rarely did anything without plotting long in advance.

Lydia had no difficulty working out what Simon wanted from the scheme. To cause trouble. She read the old reckless enjoyment of mayhem in his glittering blue eyes as she faced him down with what she prayed was a dismissive expression. Nor was he averse to the idea of a flirtation. She’d been out in society for nine years. She immediately recognized that particular light in a gentleman’s glance.

“May I request the pleasure of this dance?” Simon asked with a charming smile that had her on guard immediately.

“I already have a partner,” she said coldly.

“That’s me,” Cam pointed out cheerfully, interrupting his conversation with Grenville to prove that he’d always been alert to what Simon and Lydia said to each other. “Your brother is happy to step aside in favor of an old chum.”

The most bizarre element of Cam’s conniving was that he toyed so heedlessly with scandal. Camden Rothermere always trod carefully, as if to prove that he was a man of unwavering principle and decorum, whatever the circumstances of his birth.

Lydia’s glare branded her brother a traitor. She’d have plenty to say to him once they were home. He shrugged with a hint of apology that didn’t mollify her at all.

Gritting her teeth and consigning all Derbyshire men to Hades, she turned to Grenville. At her side, she sensed Simon’s avid interest in her interactions with her fiancé. She fought back the urge to jab her childhood love with her elbow and tell him to take himself and his curiosity elsewhere. Preferably Outer Mongolia.

“Grenville, we’ve hardly spoken a word to one another all evening. I’m sure Mr. Metcalf will renounce his claim.”

“I’d hoped to discuss Grenville’s plans for the next session in the Commons.” With unlikely enthusiasm, Cam clapped his hand on Grenville’s stocky shoulder. No chance now to divert her betrothed, curse her brother’s strategems.

“My love, His Grace’s interest could be vital.” Grenville’s eyes brightened at the prospect of enlisting Cam’s political influence. Lydia had never deceived herself that at least part of her appeal to her fiancé was her kinship to a major powerbroker. “You go and enjoy yourself.”

“In that case, this dance is mine.” Simon’s hand snaked out to circle her arm in a ruthless grip. Had she imagined that he’d gone unnaturally still when Grenville called her his love? Surely she had. Simon had never been the jealous type. She couldn’t picture him getting het up about a woman he’d known a decade ago.

Quickly her eyes raked the room. To her surprise, the reunion of rakish Simon Metcalf and punctilious Lydia Rothermere hadn’t created a stir. She had no wish to alter that state of affairs by making a scene, so with ill grace, she nodded. “Very well.”

Chapter Two

Lydia had become so involved in her unspoken battle with Simon that she hadn’t paid attention to the music. She would have preferred to hear a cotillion which presented little opportunity for private conversation. But the tune playing now was undoubtedly another waltz.

“Your enthusiasm warms my heart,” he said drily, stepping closer. In comparison to Grenville, who only had an inch or two’s advantage on her, Simon seemed dominatingly tall.

“I can imagine,” she snapped, even as her own heart skipped a beat when he slipped one hand around her waist and took her hand firmly in the other.

His touch shouldn’t still retain this power. Not after ten years. But every inch of her skin prickled with response. She drew herself up to her full height and regarded him with what she hoped was cold indifference.

“I see you still favor roses.” His blue gaze rested on the flowers in the elaborate coronet of braids. “No matter where I went, whenever I saw roses, I thought of you. Do you remember I gave you a rose on that last day?”

“Did you? I don’t recall.” She lied, but he provoked her pride, pretending he still cared. Did he imagine he merely needed to smile and ask her to dance to turn her into a complete henwit again? Her voice hardened. “Just what asinine caper are you and Cam up to?”

“Up to?” he asked with theatrical innocence as he swept her into a turn that left her dizzy.

The moment she’d glimpsed him on the staircase, the wall of glass between her and the rest of the world had shattered. Ten years without seeing him and still he made her heart sing. It was absolutely unacceptable. She would not tumble back into infatuation with this intriguing scoundrel. He’d left her without a word and had spared her nary a word since. And she was betrothed to a worthy man who deserved her loyalty.

The reminder of her duty made her straighten a backbone which showed a lamentable tendency to bend in Simon’s direction. “Don’t play games.”

To his credit, he didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Cam thinks you’re making a mistake.”

The handsome face above hers had settled into uncharacteristic austerity. He’d been a lighthearted, easygoing young man. That was one of the reasons she’d loved him. For all its luxury, life at Fentonwyck had been bleak, even before her mother’s death when Lydia was ten. Simon came from a large, loving family where nobody scrutinized the children’s every move for the risk of the world’s disapproval.

“Cam has no right to interfere,” she said sharply. “And neither do you.”

“Consider it a privilege of old friendship.”

“Dead friendship.” She told herself that the description roused no pang. “If you expect to call on our childhood affection, you should have dropped me the occasional note.”

“Now your father has passed on, it was safe to come back.”

“Oh, valiant,” she said sarcastically. In spite of how they argued, their bodies moved in perfect accord. She followed each subtle nudge of Simon’s lead as if they’d danced together a thousand times. The heat of his touch throbbed through her blood.

His expression turned wry. “Leaving seemed the best solution back then. You know the duke would have ruined the Metcalfs if I’d so much as squeaked in your direction after he caught us… kissing.”

They’d veered close to doing more than kissing, she recalled with renewed mortification. Her father had been so livid to catch his daughter offering her maidenhead to a penniless commoner that he’d threatened Simon’s family. As Duke of Sedgemoor, he was capable of destroying a mere knight, even if the Metcalfs had held estates in Derbyshire since the Norman Conquest.

“My father’s plans didn’t include marrying me to a man without title or fortune.”

An uncharacteristic expression of guilt settled on Simon’s spectacular features. “Nonetheless, I hope you’ll accept my condolences on his passing. I’ve been out of touch with affairs in England or I’d have written at the time.”

“And of course my father’s death five years ago was the only matter you could possibly want to communicate about.”

He winced under her jibe. “I hadn’t played the man of honor with you. I should have stayed to protect you from your father’s temper.”

“You tried.” To be fair, he had. He’d stood up to the duke until six stout stable hands had hauled Simon away, still protesting that Lydia bore no fault for what had happened.

“Without succeeding. Was it very bad?”

Yes, it had been awful. Unbearably, excruciatingly awful. Her stomach still tangled into knots at the memory. For the only time in her life, her father had beaten her. But worse than the physical pain and humiliation had been the prospect of never seeing Simon again. “I learned the error of my ways.”

“I thought you might. I tried to as well. Then, when I finally mustered courage to ask some stray travelers about you, the gossip was that you were to marry Leath.”

Startled, she tripped. Only Simon’s quickness saved her from an embarrassing tumble. Dear Lord, she’d have to pay for dancing lessons at this rate, or warn any partner he risked his toes when he stood up with her.

“My father wanted the match.” But she hadn’t. The only man she’d wanted to marry had been kicking his heels on the Continent by that stage.

“Even if you hadn’t agreed to marry the Marquess of Leath, I knew there would be a line of men begging for your hand. I was astounded when I received Cam’s letter saying you’d waited so long to make your choice.”

“I…” She swallowed and stared directly into his eyes. “I found it difficult to trust any man.”

Shocked, she watched the color leach from his skin and a stricken expression darken his blue eyes. His manner lost its taunting edge. “I’m sorry, Lydia. More sorry than I can say.”

Hostility was easier to bear than pity. She couldn’t endure this sense that he saw into her soul to all the loneliness and longing and rage there. She blinked to clear the mist of tears from her eyes and forced a cheerful reply. “It’s all for the best, anyway.”

“Is it?” he asked and a shiver ran through her at the dangerous rawness in his question. After a bristling silence, he went on, his voice returning to lightness. “Whatever your marital plans, I assumed that after I’d led you into such a compromising situation, you’d never want to speak to me again.”

“I didn’t.” Yet another lie. She paused and went on with a bitter edge and perfect sincerity. “I don’t.”

His hand tightened around her waist and he drew her closer. She tensed to prevent her body meeting his. The gossip she’d heard over the years about his wildness indicated that he wouldn’t cavil at creating a public fracas to break her engagement.

“Don’t marry that fellow, Lydia.” Simon sounded serious, like a mature man. She didn’t trust this new version of him. She’d have trusted the boy who grew up on the neighboring estate with her life. This man was a stranger.

She jerked against his hold, but he was so much stronger and a scene would only play into his and Cam’s hands. She took a shaky breath and wished with an intensity unknown over the last decade that Simon had stayed away. “My marriage is none of your concern.”

“I know you’re angry at me.”

“I’m not angry at you,” she snapped back. It was too vexing for him to imagine that she’d worn the willow for him all these years. Even if, God rot him, it was true. She drew herself up and glared at him. “I have no feelings for you whatsoever, apart from chagrin that in your arrogance you imagine you can trot back into my life and give me orders. I’m twenty-seven, not seventeen, Simon, and more than capable of deciding my future.”

He endured her scolding without a flinch. “Not if your future is to become the wife of that prosy bore.”

“You’ve said three words to Sir Grenville, yet you condemn him as a bore? You’re absurd. He’s a good, reliable man with qualities a brute like you wouldn’t even recognize.”

“He’s a wet blanket.” A muscle flickered in Simon’s cheek and a white line rimmed his lips. He looked furious. “I hate to see a woman of spirit and intelligence sacrificing herself to his ambition.”

“You don’t know me well enough anymore to comment on my spirit or intelligence,” she said sharply. Her hand fisted against his shoulder, the glove stark white against his deep black coat. “And whose ambition should I worship instead? Yours?”

She watched his temper fade. “I only want what’s best for you, Lydia.”

She gave a sour laugh and realized that right now she genuinely hated him. “No, you don’t. You want to control me. You always did.”

“Don’t marry him.”

“What should I do instead? Marry you?”

The words hung in the air like a miasma. He jerked back as if she’d struck him. “Your father accused me of pretensions above my station, as a second son angling after a duke’s daughter.”

What had she expected Simon to say? That he’d longed for her as she’d longed for him? If he’d wanted her any time after he’d left, he had merely to get a message to her. She’d have swum the Channel with one arm tied behind her back for the promise of a life with Simon.

“As I pointed out, my father is five years dead,” Lydia said coldly.

She tried to pull away, but he held her with an implacability foreign to the boy she’d loved. But of course, he wasn’t the boy she’d loved. He was a man a decade older and in possession of infinite worldly experience. She couldn’t imagine what entertainment he hoped to gain from barging into her bridal ball. Unless he wasn’t here for entertainment, but because Cam had placed him under the obligation of friendship. Oh, how mortifying if Simon had returned purely because her brother felt sorry for her.

Simon’s jaw set in a stubborn line that was also unfamiliar. “You’re throwing yourself away on that prig.”

She’d had enough of this. “Stop it. You’re not fit to wipe Grenville’s boots.”